Once upon a time there was a place called Shady Springs, shady enough to house about five kegs of beer, an outdoor barbecue, rampant tepee smoke-ins, drunken fools on swing sets (me), etc. 6 foot 5" Gibby Haynes shoot hoops with towering Meat Puppets singer Curt Kirkwood to the cheers and jeers of us sidecourt addicts. Gibby thinks his beloved pal "throws like a girl". Being a girl, I didn't think so, but Curt's large crew cap makes me suspect he is smuggling a smoked pig from the festivities.

As this day of mayhem mashes on, I witness many voluptuous horrors such as Gibby flashing his gold lame underwear during the Texas barbecue held in the bands honor. Nonplused was I by his gold lame doohickey. After all, one listen to a Butthole Surfer's song tells of what a southern spitfire he is. "It's not really underwear," Gibby explains, "that's known as a T-back. It's what titty dancers wear. There's titty dancers and then there's dick dancers." Gibby admits he wouldn't mind being a dick dancer for maybe two days.

Judging by the pelvic-nest of bills he ransomed strutting his wares all afternoon, he wouldn't do too poorly either. Gibby plucks one sweaty green back out after another while tallying up his impressive profits. "Wow, I made forty bucks!" he exclaims. Maybe he missed his true calling. We all agreed this is an impressive sum (later on Gibby said it turned out to be $50). Even more impressive! "What's that?" I ask while pointing at a strange looking piece of sweaty paper. "That's a peso," he explains with a giddy grin. Does that count?

Who could blame Gibby and the Buttholes for a little show and tell when they have so much to celebrate, namely a platter du jour called Independent Worm Saloon, produced by none other than former Zeppelin bassist John Paul Jones. And what better place for an unruly record release party than in the band's home state.

This isn't the only time Gibby entertains people with such Vegas flash. He and some friends presented their act at a local bar. "We started telling jokes to these people, they bought me a beer, and then I did some table dances out back," relays Gibby. "I got ten bucks, cab fare, and four pints of beer."

Okay it sounds cheap, it sounds sordid. So what? That's one of the reasons why we listen to a Butthole Surfers album in the first place. Heh, heh, ain't it varmint? Admit it now ! The Austin based crew has left a legacy of freak show sordidness and they haven't even hit their high water mark yet.

"Typically, throughout the years we've had a massive light show usually involving films and strobes, before most bands were doing that sort of thing. The whole idea is to complete the oral and visual salts," explains drummer King Koffey. "My favorite film that we showed during a gig was on penis reconstruction," says bassist Jeff Pinkus. "It started off with a guy getting his jeans caught on a tractor turbine. And it didn't look too pretty. He got it all fixed up but no one really got the point of the movie because we always showed it backwards so it looked more like a sex change operation. We also had a good butcher training movie that we showed backwards - all the cows flying back together again. That was pretty cool." Somehow in the Butthole's stream-of-consciousness, a world in reverse is right side up. And for a bunch who do things backwards, they're going forward fast.

On the subject of reversal, their lives were a reversal of poverty. While remaining homeless for a number of years and/or living out of a non-air conditioned van, the group went around the country pan handling gigs with its eccentric dancer Kathleen, a.k.a. Ta da The Shit Lady, and trusty pooch Mark Farner, who guarded equipment. "Cops would pull us over and instead of throwing us into jail they'd feel sorry for us, shaking their heads", recalls Paul. "I relate it to the
special Olympics - you don't fuck with the special Olympics, you don't fuck with the Butthole Surfers. There's just no point to it".

"I recall that we went through ashtrays to find enough unsmoked tobacco butts to make one full cigarette," states King. "We were sleeping in the lice and rodent dens of the world but it was what we wanted to do." Paul adds. "It doesn't seem real anymore. I'm certainly glad I did it because it put me where I am right now but if you told me I'd have to go back out and do it again, I don't think I could. We were desperate. Early on we burned our bridges both behind us and in front of us, too."

Paul Leary, an admittedly "frustrated stockbroker," is 15 hours away from a Master's degree in finance. And Gibby, who studied accounting in college, made a living auditing folks before and during his Butthole Surfers days. Can you imagine him at an I.R.S. hearing?

"I don't think I can be a stockbroker now," confesses Paul. "What's my resume going to say? For the past 12 years I've been touring with someone who shits in their hand and feeds it to the fish in front of a bunch of people (a reference to the Butthole's infamous dancer Kathleen, hence the nickname)."

"People average three different careers in their life time: this is my second," describes Gibby. "In the next, I'm going to be a movie star." This statement comes out in a Garboesque tone. Gibby then admits, "Actually, I'd really like to direct a movie."

Needless to say, the band isn't pinching pennies anymore, especially if they were able to blow $3,000 on single malt scotch whiskey during the recording of Independent Worm Saloon. The generous budget of Capitol Records extended further than the band's bottomless glasses. "It's all money," notes Paul. "You know, we spent more on this record than on our last nine records combined times two."

Capitol rolled out their red carpet of unearthly delight including samplers, sequencers, and digital computer recorders for the band members to thinker with, not to mention providing a cornucopia of studio time (seven weeks) in Marin, CA, near the George Lucas ranch. This certainly beat the Butthole's former house-cum-studio method. It also granted them the option to hire John Paul Jones as producer.

It was Capitol who first suggested Jones. "When I heard that, I just cracked up and said, 'Oh, yeah, he's going to want to work on the Butthole Surfer's record. Why not?,'" smirks Paul. "They sent him a tape an he said he'd do it. That really floored me. So we were like 'gosh, do we really want to do this?' We talked to him on the phone for a little while and we all agreed that if his name had been Dick Wipe we would have still wanted him because he had a really cool attitude."

The band invited Jones to Austin for two weeks of preproduction discussion in-between drinking shots of scotch. With the exception of 'Edgar', Jones honed in on the Buttholes' straightforward rock songs as opposed to its more psychedelic "swirly" pieces (songs without a start or ending: "they just sort of go")

"Despite the fact that [Jones] is British, we were able to understand each other's humor and he was very easily entertained," notes Paul. "We got along real well. He was not assertive in trying to change us. He made some suggestions with regard to arrangements here and there, but he was pretty much into what we were into." Jones' talent for provocative arrangements complemented material that in Jeff's opinion can otherwise be a bit repetive. Certainly all the songs that comprise Independent Worm Saloon are quite a distinct marvel for the ears. On each listen, it seems as if a peculiar new creature sound surfaces.

'Ballad of Naked Man', the only song written at the studio, parades Jones on bass and some fancy banjo picking by Jeff. "Not even in my wildest pothead fantasies of high school did I ever figure I'd be playing with John Paul Jones on a song that I had written. It was a stretch for my imagination."

You never know what will make it onto a Butthole's album, which have always been part of the fun. IWS itself contains anything from sundry bits of a Cherokee Bible reading to vomitoriums of distinction. Although its structure oriented songs are in many ways the antithesis of the ambient Locust abortion Technician, as a general rule of thumb having a sound is avoided with fierce passion. Perhaps this is the reason it took the band a while to develop an audience.

With the boost from Jones and Capital Records, will the top 40 charts be making a rectum-sized space for the band? "I'd be very shocked but I'd dig it, man," states Paul. "I'm ready for arena rock." Even with a statement like that, it's hard to accuse a band of selling out after they've struggled so long, yet some do. If an individual be judged by one action alone, perhaps the Buttholes have sold out by signing with a major. But if you consider the devilishly clever music they've created and down-to-earth perspectives that accompany it, then they have not.

Basically, the outfit had its cake and got to eat it too, with a few exceptions. In order not to inhibit sales, the Butthole's conceded to let Capitol shorten its name to BHS in certain mainstream markets. The group claims not to be bothered by this. They also acknowledged Capitol's pooh-poohing of the 90 second vomit loop on 'Clean it Up' by cutting it down to 30 seconds. Bulimics craving the sound of vomit can find the track in its entirety on the 10" version). Whether these sacrifices seem fairly minor to the group in the face of exposure only they can say. Certainly after 12 years, they've paid their dues.

"It never rains on the Butthole Surfers," remarks Paul "We could play an outdoor festival that's rained out for three days and as soon as we hit the stage the clouds part, rainbows appear, and the birds chirp. When we finish our set, the clouds come back and it starts to rain again. That's the story of our career. We have been blessed."

During the latter par of this summer they were cursed with going on tour with Stone Temple Pilots. Obviously the audience for STP were not ready for their dose of BHS, as at one show Gibby lost it and screamed at the vanishing audience, "You Goddamn motherfuckin' sons of bitches are missing out on the motherfuckin' Jimi Hendrix of the nineties!"

After all, the Butthole Surfers have not stopped being the wild and wooly varmints they've always been. They're individuals who know how to cause a ruckus and admittedly love their dogs more than they love themselves. Every single member is not only devoid of ego, but is rather self-effacing. Gibby, the zealot of the pack, has an aversion to answering questions about the band and would rather be off riding his hot rod, while Paul prefers to go fishing with Kramer. King, the literary giant who once commandeered a counter culture magazine called Throbbing Cattle, would opt to be out in the pasture somewhere. And the shy Jeff Pinkus seems well suited for domicile endeavors.

"We're living proof that you don't need talent or good looks to make it in music," reveals Paul. "People ask what it takes to become a successful rock band: I always say just fucking quit your job and live on the street. And when you get really hungry, you'll come up with something good. Just don't give it up."